Sandy

At long last, 
plunging into the 
underground, the
arteries of her city.
The beating hearts
of subway trains,
silenced
in her storm.

Oh, the blustery
kisses pressed to the forehead
of Manhattan
to get that feisty soul
to sleep. 
Dark, dark,
a firework crack
past 39th. 
Sweet dreams, baby.
Look at those stars, 
Through her eyes,
the blue-
speckled with electricity.

And New York hadn't breathed that deep
ever, sitting in darkened apartments,
listening to 
her lullabies, tender cooings
of the dreams to be had.

Weeping all across the island,
lachrymose in midtown,
the dark square of Central Park
all over again,
christmas tree bulbs
crackling down the avenues.

Her strong arms cradling 
the taxis, swathed in her 
body,
washing over, over-
here, she makes her home.

Southbound

There are one million
ginko trees in manhattan.
Weeping their leaves
on the slate sidewalks.

There are ten million pennies
in the fountains, 
Washington Square,
Union Square.

Seven million panes of glass
in the Freedom Tower.

At least nine subway lines.
Red, blue, yellow,
orange?
Uptown and Queens,
the E train,
to the phantom 
of the World Trade Center.
At all times.

This is what amputees feel like.

These are the phantom tremors
and pains, when you wake in a cold sweat.

These are your missing limbs.
We felt the shaking,
breathed the smoke to keep
it inside of us,
somewhere.
Shifting in our lungs.

The mundane,
the automaton speaks
to the suits sloshing
in the yellow seats,
"This is a southbound E-train.
Last stop at World Trade Center."

This is your missing leg,
a broken arm.
This is the nightmare
of amputation.

The History of Swing

Yes, the rhythmic thrum of my
body, hips pulsing,
legs holding me steady.
And this was where
I had come from.

Around fires in the dark,
feet stamping upon
the hardened earth,
red soil clouding onto 
their toes. 

This is where we come from,
the sway of a pelvis,
the call into a forest.
The desert's lost wind
whipping up the smoke.

I stand on waxed flooring,
feeling the groves of the
ancient forest, the knots
and wear of humanity.

In my legs there is music,
working through my hips-
I am woman, and here
is where I came from.

Black and white dance halls
with burnt edges,
distended bellies full of body
swaying in the crowds.

In my shoulders a groove,
a bob and weave with my
head of curls, against the
colored lights.
Music was born from my 
belly. 
My lips, stained red 
formed sound.

I am the silver-streamer stages
with four piece bands,
the bar crates and microphones.
My hips wrote
the history of swing.

My arms up, taking
a handful of stars,
burning to illuminate 
the primal urge 
we evolved.

This is where I come from.
With music in my hips
enough to guide the heavenly bodies
to rest. 
I am woman, and this where
dance came from.